


What's left behind

by Niitza



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Codependency, De-Serumed Steve Rogers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Medical Procedures, Not Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie) Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Recovery, Self-Discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-14 03:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11774724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: The thing was, after waking up in that new century, that strange future where nothing and no one was the same, not even himself, it had never occurred to Steve to wonder again if the effects of the serum were permanent.





	1. Prague

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was slowly but surely turning into one of these Epic Fic Ideas Whose Main (But Not Only) Default Is That You Never Wrote It - but I actually really wanted to write it. So to get over how daunting its hugeness seemed to me, I took a page out of Baudelaire's book and wrote it with self-imposed brevity, i. e. in short sequences of 200 words (as counted by my word processor). 
> 
> Then I wrote the first two chapters, which ended up being 12 sequences long, and being my slightly-OCD-self, I immediately added that constraint to the pile. Hence the result: a story told in 6x12 texts of 200 words + 1. (That is to say 7 chapters - I swear, the reference to Christian symbolic numbers was not intended. I blame Steve and his martyr tendencies.)
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

It started with a headache.

Or no, it started earlier than that.

It started with the battle against Project Insight, with that gut wound which healed much too slowly, lingering weeks down the line in pinches and tugs whenever he stood up too fast. He'd been shot during the war, multiple times: it shouldn't have taken that long.

It started with a dull ache spreading through his bones—his knees, his hips, his spine, pain climbing up and up, settling in like an old friend. It made him rub at his stiff shoulders, massage his sore thighs and grin over at Sam, reassuring: looked like even the serum couldn't shield you from the discomfort of a cramped seat on intercontinental flights.

But the headache—when the pain reached his skull and secured its hold there, crawling along his temples and squeezing a little bit tighter every day instead of fading… The headache was when he first began to wonder if maybe, just maybe, something was wrong.

He didn't tell Sam. Sam would've frowned, would've worried, would've suggested taking a break, slowing down in their search. They were so close to finding Bucky; Steve couldn't let him slip away.

Not again.

 

*

 

The sun was shining over Prague, a bright disk blazing across the azure sky. Its rays fell like spears onto the tiled roofs, the cobbled streets, weighing down on Steve's nape and shoulders: the crushing heat of continental summer.

Yet if it hadn't been for the headache plaguing him, if it hadn't been for the fear of this latest lead turning into yet another dead end, or for the clock ticking down the days until the next mission called them back to New York, Steve knew that he would've loved the city.

It wasn't just the beauty of it, the architecture, history and art winking at you around every corner. No, it was the clunky streetcar he'd ridden that morning, it was the riot of smells on the market he'd walked past, it was the intercultural blabber bouncing off every wall. It was the look of the oldest inhabitants, the rundown facades looming here and there, cracks through which countless layers of the past shimmered, close enough to touch. It was the scorching heat, the droves of people, the children shouting for ice-cream.

It was, unexpected but undeniable, the distorted echo of Brooklyn in July—of something like home.

 

*

 

The weather didn't help his migraine. He hadn't been sleeping well, hadn't been digesting well either; he alternated between being too cold and too hot and now woke up nauseous more often than not.

Usually it faded within hours, but today it hadn't. The sun was nearing its zenith, hammering down on him, making him squint behind his sunglasses. His blood was rushing through his veins, getting louder as he walked, until an exclamation rung out: he'd run into someone. He apologized and stepped back, but when he looked up he realized he couldn't see the person's face. Black spots were dancing in front of his eyes.

He stumbled out of the way, into the nearest wall. His backpack dug painfully into his spine, but the stucco felt almost cool under his hand, solid. He focused on that, closed his eyes and breathed—only he couldn't get any air. The dizziness wouldn't fade, and still the sun was glaring. He had to get away from it, if only for a minute.

He opened his eyes, blinked, looked around—and almost huffed in relief when he saw it, at the end of the street: a bar with its doors open wide.

 

*

 

He took off his cap and sunglasses, almost groaning in relief: it was like removing a vice. With a sigh he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

The bar was dim and quiet around him. A fan was humming in the corner, blasting cool air towards him at short, regular intervals. Steve breathed deeply, willing his vertigo to pass. Whatever was causing it—the heat, stress, exhaustion—it irritated him more than anything. It had briefly made him lose sight of what he was doing, and he couldn't regroup with Sam empty-handed, needing to canvass this part of the city again.

"Are you okay, mister?"

The waiter was back, with his sparkling water and glass.

"Yeah," Steve said, straightening up—and wavering when the blood rushed from his head. "Just, too much sun," he added, forcing a smile.

The waiter nodded sagely, finished pouring and left.

Steve waited, braced on the table, until he felt more stable. Then he picked up his glass. One mouthful, two, they felt almost good, freshening, until—

His glass clattered onto the table. He staggered up, panicked, looking around for—

He barely made it to the bathroom before he threw up.

 

*

 

"Mister? Are you alright?"

From the sound of it it wasn't the first time the question was being asked. Steve spit into the toilet bowl. His head was throbbing, his throat burning, his ribs and muscles aching from the exertion.

With an effort, he looked over.

"Must I call someone?" the waiter asked.

"No, it's okay," Steve rasped. "I'm—"

He pushed himself up but his hand slipped right off the edge of the bowl. Pain burst in his head: it had slammed right against the toilet as he fell.

He heard a swear, a shout, a string of words he didn't understand. He felt dazed. And then:

"It's okay, he's with me," a voice said, before segueing into more gibberish. Czech, Steve realized. Someone crouched down next to him, a hand settled on his arm. "Hey, buddy. You good?"

Steve knew that voice. He tried to glance up, but couldn't. His hands were trembling, his legs too, minute twitches and jerks crawling up his limbs.

"Come on, let's get you out of here," the voice said. The hand gripped his shoulder, tugged him upright—

Pain exploded down Steve's spine; he gasped, his whole body seized. The world tilted sideways and—

 

*

 

Steve was late.

He'd missed their check-in and now he was late at the rendezvous and Sam was trying not to worry. After all, he couldn't put it past Steve to have gotten distracted. Over the past months he'd seen how single-minded the guy could be—obsessed, even. To a point where Sam was now wondering if the best he could do to help him actually wasn't to follow him, but to suggest he stop.

Lips pursed, he swirled the dregs of his drink. Around him families were leaving, to be replaced by the evening crowd.

Dude was running himself ragged—like if he could toil enough, make himself hurt enough, he would be absolved and get his friend back. Only things didn't work that way. It was taking its toll, too: Steve didn't even notice he wasn't hiding his headaches and insomnia well enough anymore. Something was going to give, soon—unless Sam found the right words.

His phone beeped; he looked down.

 _Got a lead_ , Steve's message said, _but we have to move fast. Meet me at the airport asap_.

Sam stared, then swore and jumped to his feet.

He definitely needed to find the words.

 

*

 

He walked up and down the terminal twice before acknowledging the obvious: Steve wasn't here. He hadn't replied to the message Sam had sent from the shuttle either.

Feeling uneasy, Sam attempted a call. The phone rang and rang; no one picked up. He tried again.

"Okay," he muttered when his third attempt was equally unsuccessful. "Okay."

His thumb hovered over the screen. Was he jumping to conclusions? Was he being paranoid? He cursed and made a fourth call, in another direction.

"Scuttle!" Tony Stark exclaimed. "What's Ariel done this time?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "I don't know," he said. "He missed rendezvous and won't pick up his phone. Can you find out where he is?"

Stark started typing, no questions asked: he knew how serious this could be. "I can tell you where his _phone_ is, which— Oh, Prague, _sweet_. Is it nice this time of year? I was considering taking Pepper there for—"

" _Stark_."

"It's been stationary for the past two hours," Stark went on. "In park Hav— How the _hell_ are you supposed to pronounce _that_?"

Sam was losing patience. "Stark," he snapped. "Focus."

"I'm sending you the coordinates. Keep me posted."

With that he hung up.

 

*

 

He came to, or tried; his thoughts were muddled and pain superseded all perceptions—but one: a hand cupping the back of his head, large, familiar. Reassuring.

He tried to speak, to open his eyes, was shushed. Steam brushed against his lips: he was being given something to drink. He obediently swallowed. The liquid was warm, salty, a bit oily—a broth. He took another mouthful.

"That's it," a wavering voice said, but then Steve's stomach rebelled. He choked on the next sip and rolled over, heaving, the broth coming right back up. The voice cursed as he threw up—and kept throwing up, long after his insides were empty. He couldn't stop. Bile burned his throat, his nose, brought tears to his eyes, then he felt something like a stab and his mouth filled with something warm and thick.

He gurgled, spat, coughed and spat again. The curses above him had turned into a panicked chant, but he'd finally stopped heaving. He slumped down, taking large gulps of air; they burned and stank of iron. The pain was spreading again, pins and needles turning into poisonous hooks digging into his spine, his ribs, his entrails, securing their hold and—

 

*

 

In summer Havlíčkovy Gardens stayed open until midnight, but at this time of day it was nearly deserted. Sam found himself alone in an alley lined with sycamores and beeches rustling in the hot breeze. He'd reached the coordinates Stark had sent: several benches stood in a half circle off the path, all of them empty.

Steve's phone hadn't moved, though, Stark said. Sam found it in the closest bin—suddenly glad that no one was around to see some black guy digging through the trash.

"That's not good," Stark said.

"You _think_?"

"Hey, no need to screech, birdie. Who's pulling up the history of that phone's locations and hacking into the CCTV as we speak, mh?"

Except that whoever had dumped the phone had chosen the one corner in all of Prague not covered by cameras, in a park with multiple exits, at a time of day where it was overrun by tourists.

Sam didn't need a visual to suspect who that might've been, if not Steve.

"Call Natasha," he said.

"What? Why?"

"What do you mean, why? I need back up. I'm not a spy, Stark. I can't do this alone." Especially not against the Winter Soldier.

 _Fuck_.

 

*

 

"—eve, Steve?"

 _Bucky_ , he thought, and his eyes fluttered. He felt feverish, his body like a bruise.

"Dun' feel so good," he mumbled.

"I know," Bucky said. He sounded close to panic; whatever Steve had come down with this time, it was bad. "And I'm sorry, but you have to stand up. We—"

"Y'need to change the sheets?" Steve asked.

Bucky didn't reply, just bent down. Steve was exhausted, riddled with pain, but this was familiar, almost instinctive: he slid an arm around Bucky's shoulders, let himself be guided into a sitting position, and gasped when he was hoisted right up—because the mattress was on the floor, so it wasn't a mattress, it was a bunch of couch cushions, and wasn't it just like him, to get sick when staying over at the Barnes'?

"Come on," Bucky said.

They went through a door, and then there were steps, only there weren't any steps outside the Barnes' living-room. "Where—?"

"Just down a couple stairs," Bucky said quickly, "then to the car. It's not far, I promise," and Steve almost scoffed, because since when did the Barnes own a _car_? But then his legs failed him, and he stumbled, and—

 

*

 

Natasha had been in Singapore, but looking at her you wouldn't have guessed that she'd just arrived from a sixteen hour journey. Her features were slightly drawn, maybe, but she easily concealed it behind a smile as she flicked her hair back and entered the bar in which, according to Stark, Steve had stopped for over twenty minutes the day before.

Sam waited outside, flipping through a guidebook so as to avoid drawing attention. It felt like an eternity had passed before Natasha stepped back outside, waving and throwing another smile over her shoulder. It faded the second she turned away.

"He was here," she said before Sam could even ask. "He came in yesterday right before noon, they remembered him because he got sick."

Sam frowned. "Steve doesn't get sick."

"No, he doesn't," Natasha said with a meaningful look. "They said his friend was here and brought him back to their hotel."

Sam's frown deepened. "His friend?"

"Big guy, scruffy, long dark hair. Blue eyes."

And even though Sam had had his suspicions, getting confirmation was still a blow.

"Shit."

"Yeah," Natasha said, and Sam suddenly realized that she was unnerved—or worse: afraid. "That about sums it up."

 

*

 

The surroundings were growing lighter and lighter, dragging him up until he breached the surface and woke. The car—he was in a car, he realized, but somehow he'd known that already—had slowed down to a stop, a window had rolled down. Mild air wafted in, accompanied by voices, then laughter. Steve blinked and looked around.

He was lying in the backseat, a jacket folded under his head. Outside, he recognized a row of booths crowned by a metal structure: a toll barrier of some sort. In the booth next to the car, a man was handing something back to the driver, who slid it into the pocket of a windbreaker which he threw onto the passenger seat, turning just enough to reveal a familiar profile.

Noticing Steve's staring, he smiled, said something in a language Steve didn't understand.

Steve wasn't worried, though. He felt dazed, exhausted, but for now the pain had receded and sleep was tugging at him again. As the car started rolling, he let his eyes drift shut—and wondered if that was how children felt like nowadays, falling asleep at the end of a long drive, trusting their parents to safely bring them home.

 


	2. Cairo

"Anything?"

"No," Stark said, frustrated. "No sign of his over-engineered body on any camera worldwide. If he's still able to, you know, _do_ anything, he's laying low. You?"

Natasha pressed her lips together and shook her head minutely. She somehow couldn't say it out loud.

Back in Prague they'd found the small apartment the Soldier had been squatting, scrupulously cleaned out; nothing left for them to find. Further digging had yielded a lead pointing north, a solid one—too solid. A misdirection. By the time they'd realized that and doubled back, the trail had gone cold.

It had been a flawless exit, swift, prepared. The question was: why? Luring Steve in, incapacitating him, abducting him… That wasn't the Soldier's style. He came in strong and fast, went straight for the kill.

Sam, ever the optimist, or maybe unable to deal with the alternative, theorized that he might've been looking for answers. Natasha couldn't believe it. Neither did Tony: he looked exhausted, bent over his countless screens, his hair a greasy mess, his eyes red for lack of sleep. He'd lost weight.

"We'll find him," Natasha said.

She didn't add: _Even if all we find is a body to bury_.

 

*

 

Dr. M'Walimu Mutiso was no idiot: one look at Bucky and he knew exactly who he was.

But then, there was a reason Bucky had chosen him for this.

"You do realize," he said, staring at them over his glasses, "that nothing is preventing me from calling the authorities?"

Bucky shrugged, apparently unconcerned. "If you want cops all up in your and your patients' business, be my guest," he said. He stared right back.

Five seconds in, Steve had enough.

"Here," he said, dropping the Winter Soldier file onto the desk. "All the information you'll need to operate is in here." He caught Dr. Mutiso's gaze and defiantly held it. "Read it. Then tell me you still believe my friend belongs in a prison."

Bucky rolled his eyes. Steve didn't care: he'd caught Dr. Mutiso's attention. The man glanced down at the file, at him, gauging—trying to fit him into the equation.

Finally, he reached out and tugged the folder closer.

He blanched two pages in.

"Think about it that way," Bucky said, folding his hands in his lap, "you'll be making it that much more difficult for me to harm people. That's got to be a plus, right?"

 

*

 

Dr. Mutiso didn't recognize Steve. It wasn't surprising: he hadn't recognized himself either.

When he'd woken up, lucid for the first time in months, he'd been exhausted, battered and wrung and worn like an old sheet that had been washed one time too many. The feeling had been incongruous—no wound had ever left him that drained—and, at the same time, undeniably familiar: the haggard awakening after weeks of fever.

Yet it had taken him putting on a t-shirt and seeing how it _hung_ for him to notice: the narrow shoulders, the skinny arms, the protruding ribs… His body—and not.

He'd stumbled over to the full-length mirror and stared.

A movement had made him look up: Bucky, standing in the doorway. With a near hysterical chuckle, Steve had flapped his arms, and the shirt had billowed around him like a sail.

Instead of answering, Bucky had walked closer until he'd been standing right behind him. Then he'd wrapped his arms around him, slow and gentle like Steve might break, and buried his face in the crook of Steve's neck. He'd been trembling.

"Hey," Steve had said, understanding. "It's okay, Buck." He'd patted Bucky's arm. "I'm okay."

 

*

 

The room they'd been left in while the medical team finalized the cocktail of drugs that would put Bucky under was quiet; Bucky, on the other hand, wasn't. He sat perfectly still, his breathing slow and controlled, but Steve could see the pulse fluttering at his throat. His mouth was a flat line, his skin clammy; his eyes kept darting from one corner of the room to the next.

"Are you sure?" he wanted to ask, but didn't. The serum was the only thing preventing the metal arm from tearing Bucky's body in two, and if Erskine's version had failed…

"This has to go," Bucky had plainly said, looking down at it.

"What if they've perfected the serum since then?" Steve had asked, and regretted it at once. Bucky hadn't twitched, but it had flashed through his eyes all the same: the terror of eternity. The very thing Steve himself had very carefully avoided thinking about after he'd woken up from the ice.

Now he said: "I'll be right here when you wake up. And then…"

Bucky's eyes settled on him. He squeezed Steve's hand, swallowed; murmured: "And then."

Steve nodded.

He wanted it so bad he could taste it.

 

*

 

They'd fought about it: what came next. Bucky had wanted them to part ways; but when Steve had waveringly said, _okay, if that's what you need_ , and asked for a US passport, for a phone to call Sam, Bucky had refused.

"You'll go back and, what, let them stick you in a lab, try to reverse it? No, Steve. You've given enough. Don't you get it? This is your chance to get _out_."

"And do _what_?" Because maybe Bucky could disappear and build a new life from scratch, but Steve couldn't. Not again. Not alone.

The conversation had stalled, until two days later Steve had had another seizure. When he'd woken up, Bucky, mouth tight, eyes ablaze, had said, _Fine. We'll stick together_.

"No," Steve had protested. "Not for that."

" _Tough_ ," Bucky had replied. "You want the respectful friend who'll let you up and die like you obviously want to. I want to be _left alone_. Clearly, neither's gonna happen."

And Steve hadn't known whether to laugh or cry, because trampling all over his pride to bully him back into health, that was Bucky Barnes all over, and it was both hilarious and heartbreaking that this Bucky couldn't remember that.

 

*

 

Steve had his own battery of tests to go through while Bucky was in surgery—Bucky had insisted. They examined his spine, his heart, his lungs, checked his eyesight and hearing, drew some blood. They were obviously confused when he told them he needed vaccines too, but Bucky had said, "No questions," and so they didn't ask.

The results were good, for a certain definition of good: neither his scoliosis nor his heart murmur were bad enough to warrant an operation. Instead he got a plethora of prescriptions: heart medicine and regular checkups with a cardiologist, physiotherapy and an orthopedic sole, daily exercise and an inhaler, glasses, a hearing aid.

Dr. Mutiso signed the last document, then hesitated.

"Your companion will need several operations before we're done," he said slowly. "We'll keep him sedated in between, to spare him any unnecessary pain." He looked up. "If you wanted to… leave."

Steve bit back a smile. Clearly they thought him a civilian who'd been lured by the prospect of an adventure, of danger, only to realize too late that he was in over his head. They wanted to help.

"Thank you," he said. "But I'm right where I want to be."

 

*

 

Now all Steve could do was wait—something he'd never been good at. He wasn't like Bucky, couldn't lay motionless for hours on end; he needed to be active, standing back up, trudging on, always.

He would've visited the city—he'd never been to Cairo—if not for the pollution and dust. He couldn't risk another seizure. So he stayed put, in a waiting room away from the public parts of the hospital.

Other patients were there, refugees left off the official register, escapees from the Sinai. As the only white man in the room Steve stood out, but they didn't stare, kept their eyes averted and shuffled out whenever a nurse called them. Steve extended them the same courtesy, fiddling with his inhaler.

Soon he'd get his glasses and hearing aid; things would be better then. But for what? He couldn't be Captain America anymore, couldn't return to the Avengers. The thought of facing them, of them seeing him like _this_ , was nearly unbearable.

But if so, what was he going to do now?

Something like panic pressed down on his chest, clamping his throat shut. He closed his eyes, breathed in, out.

He'd never been good at waiting.

 

*

 

He couldn't hear anything from the operating room, but at times he almost convinced himself he did: screams, shouts, the sound of struggle, of Bucky waking up in excruciating pain and not knowing where he was.

But no, that wouldn't happen: the file had been very specific about how to put the Winter Soldier under. Bucky would not wake, no matter how deep the surgeons dug to remove the plates and hooks riveting the arm to his spine.

Still, Steve worried—there were so many ways this could go wrong—and wondered what was worse: this, or being in the room, seeing it happen without being able to _do_ anything, like Bucky had while Steve's body had shrunk. He'd tried to make him drink and eat, had washed away the sweat, the blood, the vomit and the waste, but mostly he'd been stuck watching helplessly as Steve had seized and choked and screamed and begged.

He'd been convinced Steve was dying.

"I'm sorry," Steve had said.

Bucky's voice had been trembling, his eyes full of leftover fright, but he'd replied: "Don't be." And, with a crooked smile—the first Steve had seen since the war: "Felt pretty familiar, at times."

 

*

 

Eventually the doctors were done, and Steve was allowed into Bucky's recovery room. He was still asleep. Steve sat and looked at those familiar features, cataloguing the changes: faint wrinkles on his forehead, at the corners of his mouth, a new hollowness to his cheeks… Discrete signs of strain that even the serum couldn't suppress, hinting at what worse lay underneath.

"I'm not that guy," Bucky had warned, as he'd tried to send Steve away, "not anymore." And, later: "Did you even wonder why my trail was so easy to follow, why I was still in Prague? I knew you were close. I was going to let you come even closer, believe that this time you were really going to catch me—and then I was going to disappear. Just to see how you'd react."

"So you were testing me—" Steve had started, but Bucky had growled:

"Not _testing_ , I was _playing_ with you—seeing how much you could take, how much I could make you _hurt_ , before you realized—"

Steve had simply glared, defiant, willing Bucky to understand: he wasn't being naive. Of course Bucky had changed. But that was okay.

After all, Steve wasn't that guy anymore either.

 

*

 

"Why did you help me, then?" Steve had exclaimed at one point, because Bucky wouldn't let it go.

"I don't know," Bucky had snapped, but Steve had retorted: "Yes, you do."

"I _don't_ ," Bucky had insisted. "I was just… tailing you, I wanted to see… But then you collapsed, and that wasn't— unless someone— it might've been Hydra, it _looked_ like— And I couldn't let them have _you_. So I took you somewhere safe. I had your phone, I was going to call your friend, leave you for him to find—but then you started coughing up blood, and screaming, and— You looked like you were dying. I couldn't just leave and risk him finding your _corpse_ —but I couldn't let him see me either, or worse, think _I_ was the one who— So I tried to buy us time, sent him on a wild goose chase, hoping that— But then he called the Widow in and. I couldn't. I couldn't stay, not with her in the same city, I couldn't risk _her_ finding me and if I stayed she _would_. So I bailed. I had it all planned out, it was easy. And I just… took you with me."

 

*

 

"Steve."

Steve blinked and glanced up: Bucky was awake.

"Hey," he said, straightening up, "how do you feel?"

"Lighter," Bucky said, with the shadow of a dark smile. Then he shifted, winced. "You have glasses."

Steve's hand shot up, even though he hadn't forgotten their presence; the weight was too unfamiliar, almost unpleasant. "They gave me a prescription."

"What else?" Bucky asked.

Steve told him, but didn't want to linger on his ailments. He asked again: "What about you?"

"It hurts," Bucky admitted. "My spine, my nerves. It feels like…" He faltered. "It feels like I just lost my arm."

He'd locked his gaze onto the ceiling, as if trying not to _look_. Dread pooled in Steve's stomach. He hadn't thought…

Had Bucky considered the metal arm his after all this time? Had the graft tricked his brain into not realizing that it was gone? Or had he simply never been given the time, the right, to deal with what had happened to him up until now?

Steve didn't know what to say. He hesitated, then took Bucky's hand. Bucky's breath hitched.

"I lost my arm, Steve," he choked, and squeezed his eyes shut. " _Fuck_. I lost my fucking arm."

 

*

 

"Anything?"

"No," Natasha replied, "which might confirm my theory that he's left Europe altogether. You?"

A flash of light drew her attention to one of Stark's many screens: a video. As she watched, Clint shot an arrow, which the Sentinel he was fighting caught. It prepared to retaliate, only to be derailed by Sam, who dropped from above to kick it in the head, then flew away.

"Depends," Stark said. He'd followed her gaze and was now watching the recording too, its blueish glow unforgiving on his tired features. "No ping on any radar about our murder suspect—but on the other hand, _big_ ping about Loki's scepter."

He glanced over and in his eyes Natasha recognized the same blend of tension and reluctance she herself felt. They'd been looking for such a lead for _years_ ; but chasing it would mean interrupting not only their search for the Winter Soldier, but also the Sentinel development program. And with Captain America down for the count, creating a protective force that could step in in place of the Avengers felt more urgent than ever.

Yet she knew that they'd look into it despite it all.

It was what Steve would have done.

 


	3. Le Crotoy

One last swipe of the brush and Steve pulled back, considered his drawing: three watercolors of the bay in front of him, milky blue spreading as the tide came in. With a satisfied smile, he lowered it and looked around.

It was a nice morning, mild, only a faint breeze snagging at his hair and breathing ripples onto the water. It was quiet, too, too early in the year for tourists to crowd the dyke. Overhead the sun was climbing, its rays warm on Steve's skin. Midday was looming close.

He stood up and stretched, winced: his back hadn't appreciated the prolonged stay on the concrete bench. Rubbing at his spine, he gazed westwards, where the dyke ended and the beach stretched on, a ribbon of pale sand, entirely empty: Bucky wasn't back from his run yet.

Steve rinsed his brush, closed his watercolor case, his sketchbook. Before he turned away he threw one last glance at the bay: the sand, the pebbles, the patches of cordgrass, the rising sea and, beyond, the strip of land with its small lighthouse. At its extremity, facing the open sea, lay an unexpected, squat grey shape: a bunker from the second world war.

 

*

 

They'd gone to see it, the bunker—or, as they called it here, the _blockhaus_. It had been one of the first excursions they'd made after their arrival.

After parking their tiny rental—Steve struggling to drive shift—they'd walked along a beach covered in large pebbles that shifted and rolled under their feet. The bunker lay further down, where the stones gave way to sand and waves. It was strangely lopsided: time and tides had gnawed at the shore, sapped its foundations until it had sagged, tilted to the side.

They'd looked at it in silence. After a while, Bucky had let himself be distracted by other things: the starfishes washed ashore, the small ponds with their minuscule sea snails, their tiny crabs, their black seaweed. Steve had stayed put, staring up at that forlorn block of concrete. A panel had been drilled onto its side, warning people off from trying to climb and enter it. And so now it lay there, slowly decaying, absurd and empty, like a toy block cast aside by a capricious child, broken, left behind and forgotten—and Steve had looked at it and thought, _You and me both, pal_.

_You and me both._

 

*

 

Apart from landmarks to which he felt the strangest of affinities, Steve quite liked it here—although part of him wondered how exactly Bucky had found such a convenient place for them to lay low over the summer: a fishing town, small and out of the way, yet attracting enough tourists every year for their presence not to draw any undue attention. Many of them were British, too, so neither Steve nor Bucky stood out by speaking English—even though Bucky could've easily passed for a native and had forbidden Steve from ever trying to imitate Peggy's accent again. What's more, the harbor opposite housed a home for people with multiple handicaps, which meant that everyone made a point _not_ to notice Bucky's missing arm, while the constant shifting of shapes and light and colors in the bay had been drawing artists for centuries, giving Steve an ideal cover. It was perfect—almost suspiciously so.

When Steve had given in and asked, all Bucky had replied was: "Jules Verne used to have a house here."

It was true, too. They'd seen it: a nice two-story building with white walls and dark blue shutters, a slate roof and a plaque.

 

*

 

The neighbor's dogs barked as he walked past, rushing to the gate with their tails waggling. Steve smiled and waved, then turned into the short drive leading to his and Bucky's rented cottage. It was a small thing, one-story and narrow, with two bedrooms barely large enough to fit queen beds and an elongated kitchen leading to a breakfast nook and a sofa. It was more than enough for the purpose it held, though: that of a liminal space.

Come September, if Steve hadn't had any more seizures, they'd drive down to Le Havre and embark on a cargo ship headed for New York.

The mere thought of it made something inside Steve quiver. He'd never reached the city by boat, yet he could almost see it: the Verrazano bridge, the Statue of Liberty, the skyline. The ghost of its smell tickled his nostrils, an aftertaste lingered on his tongue, an echo prickled at his ears: Brooklyn. A well-worn, well-loved memory.

It wouldn't be the same, he told himself. It wouldn't be their old Brooklyn, wouldn't be _home_. But maybe it could become a _new_ home—just right for these new people they were learning to be.

 

*

 

Before France there had been Romania, and a small apartment in Bucharest where they'd found refuge one winter to the next.

It hadn't been much either, a single room with a sparsely equipped kitchen and no water pressure, but they'd made it theirs, picking up old pieces of furniture from the streets, fashioning the rest with whatever scraps they could find. In the end, it had looked almost as good as the place where they'd spent most of 1941.

It was where Bucky had come back to himself.

He hadn't reverted to the person he'd been before the war; he'd never be that guy again—the suave young man half the neighborhood had been in love with. But the guy underneath, the reliable guy, caring, loyal, who'd taken care of his family, his friends, his squad? That guy was still there: the diamond core Hydra had never been able to scratch, only to suppress.

It had shone through more and more as Bucky had relearned how to live day to day, how to eat and sleep, how to interact with the world, with people—how to be a person.

Something, it turned out, that Steve had needed to relearn too.

 

*

 

It hadn't just been relearning how to live in his new old body, with its countless limitations. It had been figuring out _who_ lived in that body.

When he'd woken up, being Captain America had been the only thing that had made sense, the only thing he'd had left. Now it was gone too—yet here he still was, with a whole life ahead of him, and no idea what to do with it.

He never had. During the war, he'd never thought about after. And even before that, long-term thinking had been a luxury he couldn't afford: he'd been living day to day, trying to make that dollar last to the end of the month, to survive the winter.

 _Bucky_ had been the one with the plans. He'd become an engineer, he'd say, an astronaut, and Steve'd be there too, helping with the design, drawing aliens. Steve had been fine with that: Bucky figuring out their future, and him following.

But it wouldn't have been fair to expect Bucky to do that now: he'd just started rebuilding himself. Finding out who Steve Rogers was, that was something only Steve could do.

Even though he had no idea how.

 

*

 

Once inside Steve put away his drawing kit, went to the bathroom, then to the kitchen. He turned on the radio—an old set from the seventies stuck on a local station—and put some potatoes to boil, sparing a wistful thought for Peggy: boiling things had been about the only way she'd known how to cook. _Simple, time-efficient and even edible_ , she'd joked. Ideal, for the army.

The news of her passing had reached them in Bucharest, towards the end of January. Steve had been dragging a mean cold, but even without it he wouldn't have been able to attend the funeral.

He'd been very quiet that day, wondering: had she noticed that he'd stopped visiting? Had someone bothered to come and explain? Or had she forgotten—that he was alive, that he'd left her again, let her down again?

As soon as they'd arrived here, he'd driven up to Cap Gris Nez, where on clear days you could see Dover's cliffs, rising proud and pale over the waves. There he'd stood, and cast a wreath into the sea, lilies: Peggy's favorites.

It had been nowhere near enough, he knew—but also the only thing he could do.

 

*

 

Soon the potatoes were up to a steady boil; Steve had just thrown a salad together when the radio hosts announced the news. He tried to follow as he unwrapped a couple of soles to rinse in the sink, and perked up when the newscaster started with that morning's UN meeting in Vienna, and the signing of the Sokovia Accords.

He and Bucky had been following those since the beginning, since Ultron—since Steve had had to sit and watch, useless and guilty, while his friends fought without him, while they almost failed, then prevailed; while the world breathed in relief, then cried in outrage at the casualties; while the idea of the Accords emerged.

All along, he'd wondered if things would've been different if he—no, if _Captain America_ had been there.

He couldn't help but wonder the same now, when the reason for the story's forefront position became apparent: there had been an explosion. Steve froze, fright dripping down his spine—but it was nothing to what he felt when he heard the rest: "— _un suspect a été identifié, actuellement en fuite: il s'agirait de James Barnes, connu sous le pseudonyme de "Winter Soldier", l'auteur des attentats de_ —"

 

*

 

Bucky would never remember everything—but he was trying, struggling through the hedge of thorns circling his mind, whereas for years he'd left it undisturbed, asleep.

Part of him—the part that had kept realizing what was happening to him—had _wanted_ to forget: it had seemed easier. Because what was the point of remembering what he'd done? Of remembering a world where he had nothing, where Steve was dead?

Now, though…

"You came back to me," he'd murmured. "It's only fair." And there had been a look in his eyes, intense, almost hungry; it had made Steve shiver.

It had come back, that look, until one day Bucky had said: "I loved you." His hand had brushed against Steve's cheek, his bony shoulder. "Just like this."

Steve had been speechless. He hadn't known: Bucky had never said.

"You did not love me," Bucky had added, mournful and certain, "not like that."

Steve had shaken his head. "I _did_. I just—" He'd looked down. "I didn't realize it at the time. But then I lost you and…"

He'd trailed off: there weren't words. Then he'd looked back up and said: "I loved you. I love you, still."

Bucky had smiled.

 

*

 

Bucky found him collapsed at the foot of their bed, choking on his own breath. For a second he stared, frozen, probably convinced that this was another seizure, when they'd both been hoping— But then he was moving again, rushing to Steve's side, crouching down and dragging him up against his chest, digging into his pockets.

"It's okay," he said once the inhaler had been found, once Steve's breath had settled somewhat. His hold was still a bit tight, anxious, but Steve didn't mind: he was clinging right back. Part of him had been convinced that they'd caught him already, right there on the beach. "You're okay."

Steve wordlessly shook his head, making Bucky frown, confused—until he glanced around and noticed the mess around them: the clothes littering the floor, the half-packed bags on the bed, the fake documents gathered in a pile.

"What is it?" he asked, looking back down at Steve and brushing his hair away from his damp forehead. "What happened?"

"Didn't you hear?" Steve croaked. When Bucky tensed in answer, he stammered: "The UN meeting, in Vienna, there was a bombing—and Bucky—" His hands tightened in Bucky's shirt. "—they're saying it was _you_."

 

*

 

He'd been haphazardly packing, throwing whatever he thought they might need into their bags, his mind going over the various escape plans they'd discussed before they'd even come here, when he'd caught sight of their bedside tables: of the cheap paperback Bucky had brought back along with the newspaper, of the pile of French comics he'd borrowed for Steve at the tiny municipal library, which only opened a couple hours a week. Steve had looked at them and remembered how he'd leafed through a volume the night previous, how Bucky had given up on his own book to glance over his shoulder—of course he had: it had been about space. He'd remembered that very morning, how he'd woken up half-crushed into the mattress by Bucky's weight, Bucky's arm over him, how trying to wiggle out of the hold had woken Bucky up and turned into a scuffle, how they'd laughed… And as he'd remembered he'd been struck by how stupid he'd been, how naive, to think that they could have that—that quiet life, these simple joys—, to believe even for a second that the world would let them have it, that the past would let them go.

 

*

 

Steve might've grown complacent, but he hadn't been the only one: it had been months since he'd last seen that white-lipped look on Bucky's face—not since Tony had nonchalantly revealed the Winter Soldier's identity on live television, trying to get as many eyes looking as possible. He'd have that and more, now; neither Bucky's neatly trimmed beard, nor his lack of a metal arm would be enough to fool them all anymore.

"It wasn't you," Steve said as Bucky stared at the computer screen. "We can prove it—this morning, you were at the market, surely—"

"You think they'll care about _that_?"

Steve swallowed. "What should we do, then?"

The whole world would be looking for him. And while part of Steve was ready to stand up and face it with his head and fists held high, another part of him knew how futile that would be: no matter how determined he was, they'd just throw him aside and take Bucky before he'd even had the time to stand back up. They might not even _notice_ him there.

"I don't know yet," Bucky admitted. He met Steve's eyes. "But they won't catch us. I promise you: they won't."

 


	4. Berlin

"They got him," Tony said, and Natasha asked: "Where?"

"Hamburg. Probably on his way to Copenhagen. Here," he added, and Natasha's phone pinged: he'd sent her the provisory report.

It wasn't complete: War Machine had only given them the bare bones of it, the parts he felt justified in sharing with them for the sake of the mission. The exact unfolding of events was redacted; they only knew that the Winter Soldier had been caught, was being transferred to Berlin, and—

"He wasn't alone," Natasha muttered, eyes darting over the details of the second arrest: _male, blond, blue-eyed_ —her breath caught, until she read the rest: _5'4", British accent, seemed confused, scarcely resisted arrest and called the suspect 'James'_.

"Yeah," Tony said, frowning down at his tablet. "What's up with that?"

"Probably a cover," she replied, although the profile the Soldier had chosen was interesting. Was he even aware of what it betrayed? Unless—

"Isn't there anything more discreet than playing the older gent showing his twink lover around Europe?"

"The best covers aren't necessarily the most inconspicuous," she pointed out.

Tony grunted. "In any case, kid's in for a rude awakening," he said.

She could only agree.

 

*

 

They weren't allowed in the entrance bay when the Soldier was brought in, had to stay in the control room instead.

"I swear," Tony seethed, flipping his phone between his hands, "if they don't let me have a go at him…"

Natasha kept her eyes riveted to the screens while the Soldier was transferred to the high security unit. He was slumped in his containment cell, head down, the perfect picture of resignation. A front, probably. Still, he looked strangely diminished, especially since—

"Where's the arm?"

Tony's phone stopped spinning. "No clue. Is that thing even detachable?"

Natasha remembered the Soldier's file, the schematics: it hadn't looked like it.

"It makes no sense," she muttered. "Why cripple himself that way, especially now?"

"To better fly under the radar?" Tony suggested. " _Or_ he'd taken it off earlier, and they caught him on his way to fetch it."

Suddenly Natasha understood his impatience and irritation: if only _she_ were the one questioning the Soldier, instead of some psychiatrist…

She was so unnerved, she didn't think to check for the Soldier's companion until he'd already been put away in a separate cell, to be dealt with later: another faceless victim, already half-forgotten.

 

*

 

Steve sat in his cell, breath slow and measured, head angled away from the cameras. On the other side of the glass and metal partition, the two guards weren't paying him any attention. They'd switched one of their surveillance screens to the main attraction of the hour: the Winter Soldier, caught at last.

The young man they'd found him with didn't matter to them. Steve's spiel of fright, of incomprehension, had worked like a charm: he'd been called kid, given some water, told that it'd all be over soon. He hadn't been recognized. He hadn't been deemed a threat.

It chafed. But it was a good thing, too: it was the cornerstone to his and Bucky's plans.

All Steve had to do was figure out how to escape his cell. The door was reinforced, with a magnetic lock: impossible to crack.

He could fake a panic attack, to bring the guards inside. But it might trigger a real one—and he was outnumbered: no matter how quick he was, he wouldn't be able to take one of them down before the other realized what was happening.

Still, it was his only shot, he thought.

But then the power went out.

 

*

 

After that it was easy to neutralize the guards: they never saw him coming. He took their weapons, their passes, and crept out into the corridor. It was empty. But even once he'd reached ground level, no one stopped him: they were too busy fleeing, or trying to find out what had happened.

He checked the first evacuation plan he found, combined it with what he'd seen of the building, what he knew of such places, drawing a layout in his mind. Where would a high security unit be hidden?

He made a guess, headed in that direction—and stumbled upon a trail of bodies. Broken bodies, some dead, all taken down with a brutality Bucky would never have used, unless—

Unless he wasn't himself.

For a second Steve froze, dread spreading like ice over his limbs. His lungs seized; he forced a breath out, in, gasped through the pain and shook himself. There was no _time_. He pushed away the _who_ s, the _why_ s, the _how_ s, focused on what Bucky had told him about the Winter Soldier instead, the way he thought. What would he do in such a situation? Where would he go?

Steve thought, and thought, and ran.

 

*

 

He barely made it in time.

The thing was, he could build up some body strength, learn how to use his opponents' strength against them; but he couldn't fix his lungs. He would always have poor stamina.

When he reached the roof, gasping, the Soldier was halfway to the helipad. He didn't react when Steve called his name, so Steve ran again, grabbed his wrist—

His back slammed against the ground. Fingers curled around his throat, tightened. He clawed at them, in vain. Pinpricks danced in front of his vision, there was no time, no choice, he squeezed his eyes shut and choked out a word, two, three, Russian: _fourteen, ruin, seashore_. At the last syllable, the grip on his throat loosened.

He breathed. When he nudged the arm again, it obediently retreated, letting him roll onto his side, prop himself up on an elbow. He took large gulps of air, glanced over. The Soldier had stepped back and was now standing at attention.

" _Soldier_?" Steve asked, still in Russian. He stumbled onto his feet.

" _Ready to comply_ ," the Soldier replied.

Steve felt nauseous.

"Get us out of here," he said. The Soldier nodded, and led him to the helicopter.

 

*

 

"Well, that wasn't humiliating at all," Tony said. He seemed mad enough to spit nails, furious at himself for letting the Soldier slip away when they'd finally _had_ him.

"He won't go far," Natasha said, although she felt the same. It wasn't surprising that the Soldier had been trained to fight without the metal arm, yet she'd _still_ underestimated him.

"You _bet_ he _won't_ ," Tony snarled and started making arrangements to have his Iron Man suit brought in.

Natasha left him to follow her own leads, starting with the Soldier's companion. But when she reached the lower level, all she found was an empty cell and two unconscious guards, taken down by their own tasers.

Shit.

On her way back to the control room, she called Tony. "We have a situation."

"I'm aware," he snarked. She rolled her eyes.

"The twink's gone."

Tony paused. "Not just a cover, then."

Which begged the question of what, exactly, he was.

As she rounded the last corner, a voice called: "Ms. Romanov."

She turned around: King T'Challa had just emerged from a side room.

"There's something you might want to see."

She hesitated, then joined him: maybe _this_ would yield something, at least.

 

*

 

T'Challa introduced the man as Dr. M'Walimu Mutiso: a Wakandan citizen working at a hospital in Cairo, volunteering for an association helping refugees. Since the news of the bombing had broken, he'd been asking for an audience with his king. He'd flown all the way from Egypt to obtain it.

The Winter Soldier, he said, couldn't be the culprit.

"Why?" Natasha asked.

"The man in the pictures had two arms," Dr. Mutiso replied.

"And?"

His answer was to pick up his suitcase, lay it on the table, click it open and turn it around. Inside was a metal arm, with a red star on the shoulder. Unmistakeable.

"I operated him a year and a half ago," he said.

"He could've gotten a new one," Natasha countered.

The doctor shook his head. "We removed the socket and implants, everything we could take away without risking damage to his spine," he said, pointing at the countless spare pieces surrounding the arm—plates and cables, hooks, clamps and screws.

"Did he tell you why?" Natasha asked, staring down at them. They looked more like torture instruments than parts of a prosthesis.

"No," Dr. Mutiso said. "They said no questions."

Natasha looked up. "They?"

 

*

 

Steve looked around the derelict warehouse the Soldier had brought them to.

"We're laying low?" he asked, and the Soldier replied: "Until nightfall."

His voice was entirely devoid of inflection, as was his face of expression. It was unnerving, terrifying even. Steve's guts twisted.

"Okay," he said, voice trembling. "Thank you."

The Soldier didn't react to that; instead he started off along the wall, eyes darting around.

"Wait," Steve called. The Soldier stopped. "Perimeter check?"

"Yes," the Soldier said.

Steve nodded, gulped; said: "Good. Bring me a metal pipe, if you find one."

The Soldier did. Steve turned it around in his hands, tested its heft, its rigidity. It was exactly what he needed—what Bucky had said he needed.

"Sit," he said.

The Soldier sat.

Steve stepped around him, the Soldier's gaze following him until it couldn't anymore, until Steve stood behind him.

He could've done this face to face, he knew: all he had to do was tell the Soldier not to move, and the Soldier wouldn't, would sit entirely still as Steve raised the metal bar and—

And Steve couldn't. He _couldn't_. The pipe slid between his fingers, clattered to the ground.

The Soldier didn't even startle.

 

*

 

"Okay," Steve muttered, running his hands through his hair as he walked up and down. The Soldier, still sitting on the ground, watched him almost bemusedly.

Steve needed him unconscious. He needed—

 _Recalibration_ , Bucky had called it, which apparently meant: _Bashing my face in_.

There _had_ to be another way—only it was Hydra they were talking about. Why would they have made breaking their programming easy, or painless?

Still, Steve refused to hurt Bucky that way, to take advantage of that quiet immobility which wasn't trust but the perversion of it, what was left once you'd been stripped of the liberty to even _doubt_.

They had until nightfall: about three hours. Steve looked at the Soldier and bit his lips.

It was worth a shot.

"You should sleep," he said.

The Soldier blinked.

"We are safe here," Steve said. "And I'll need you at optimal capacity once we leave. So I want you to sleep. One hour and a half."

The Soldier stared at him, long enough for Steve to start wondering… But then he lay down, and closed his eyes.

Steve let out a slow trembling breath.

All that was left now was hope that it'd be enough.

 

*

 

They were all looking for answers, so when King T'Challa offered collaboration, Natasha accepted. She and Tony couldn't do much right now, not with the Security Council limiting their actions, not until Tony's suit got here. They could benefit from T'Challa's agents tracking down the Soldier in the meantime.

Then Sam called.

"Hey," he said. "Got the news. You okay?"

"Yes, I—" She recognized the familiar hum in the background, frowned. "Why are you in the Quinjet?"

"Bringing Stark's suit," Sam said, then paused. "I'm coming in."

"Sam—"

"I know. I _know_ , okay? And I don't care. I'll sign those damn Accords if I have to, I'm not leaving."

Except that Sam had had his reasons to be wary of the Accords, and to opt out of them in the end; good reasons. It hadn't been a decision taken lightly—especially not after all the training he'd done to become part of the Avengers, to ensure that the next time something happened, he'd make a difference. And he had: without him, Sokovia would definitely have turned out worse. But now…

Now, they didn't even have the time to argue; T'Challa was already returning, announcing that the Soldier had been found.

 

*

 

Steve sat on the ground and watched the Soldier sleep.

Even unconscious he was unnaturally still: his mouth not twitching, his breath entirely silent. Steve wanted to lean in, to run a soothing hand through his hair, wrap him in his arms and shield him from the world. But he wasn't sure Bucky would welcome touch: he'd always been skittish when it came to comfort, and Steve couldn't, wouldn't initiate anything until Bucky was back to himself, until he remembered that he could say no.

Steve still didn't know who had done this to him, how they'd known about the words, why they'd used them. To try and control him? As an experiment? He gritted his teeth. Bucky hadn't been able to explain how or how much it hurt, just that it _did_ , feeling your will being torn away from you bit by bit, being unable to stop it. So whoever had done this—

But Steve had done it too, now. Bucky might've given him the words, might've made him promise to use their override if necessary, it was still an unspeakable violation. Steve felt horrified. Guilty, sick.

Furious.

So he sat, and waited.

And then he heard a noise.

 

*

 

Tony's suit still hadn't arrived, but he wouldn't be left behind, so Natasha said, "Stay behind me," and crept into the warehouse.

They were at the edge of a small industrial town, right next to the Polish border. T'Challa's agents had surrounded the building; all that was left was to flush the Soldier out.

Armed with his vibranium suit, the King had just disappeared through a doorway, off to check the Eastern side of the building—where Natasha suspected the Soldier wouldn't be, but that was just as well: she didn't want T'Challa here for the first confrontation.

All the halls they checked were silent and empty, though—until they reached the last doorway, and a voice said:

"Don't move."

Natasha raised her hands at once, palm facing outwards. She looked past the barrel of the gun aimed at her, at what she'd started to suspect from the moment she'd found the guards unconscious in Berlin—at Steve Rogers, like she'd never known him: small, brittle and bruised; and like she knew him all too well, feet firmly planted on the ground, chin raised, gaze frank, full of determination, of something like rage.

"Well," Tony said, "that explains some things."

 


	5. The Quinjet

The Quinjet was silent, its atmosphere tense: a stand-off waiting to happen. On one side, Sam, arms crossed, expression closed-off, like it had been since he'd seen who Natasha and Tony were ushering inside alongside the Soldier; and it was like, seeing it, Tony had realized that he could be pissed, too. On the other side…

"Look," Steve said, meeting their glares head on, "I'm sorry we didn't tell you. It's just, the serum failing…" He glanced at the Soldier. "We weren't sure I would survive it."

"Oh yeah?" Tony snapped. "And it didn't occur to you that _maybe_ we could help with that? I mean, it's just a theory—a fully equipped tower, top of the line technology, the best medical team in the _world_ —yeah, I totally get why—"

"I killed your parents."

The voice, low and raspy, cut right through Tony's rant.

"That's why we didn't ask," the Soldier added.

Tony paled, stared at him, then at Steve—and it was obvious, on Steve's face: he'd known. Tony's features tightened, his hands curled into fists; Natasha got ready to intervene, but then Tony abruptly let go. With an unidentifiable noise, he turned around, and left.

 

*

 

She gave Tony some time to cool off, then followed him outside. He was at the edge of the trees, walking up and down, restless.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He barely glanced at her. "Oh, peachy," he said, and kicked the nearest trunk. "Just _this_ close to getting my suit and blasting _someone_ to kingdom come, except—" Another raging kick. "—except that the guy looks like _this_."

Natasha knew what he meant. Back in Berlin the Soldier had felt unstoppable, brutal and inhuman, but that wasn't the man who'd woken up here. That man was subdued, fraying, with the hunched shoulders of someone who'd been beaten down and down, until he'd stopped trying to stand back up—and even then, the blows had kept coming.

"Plus I'm pretty sure Pocket Cap would intervene, and while I've always wanted to punch him in his perfect teeth— Yeah." He'd noticed how Natasha had tensed. "Even _saying_ it feels wrong now, right?"

He gave the tree one last kick; his shoulders sagged.

"Besides," he added reluctantly, "me complaining about someone killing my—" He swallowed. "Kind of hypocritical, isn't it?"

He gave her a sad, twitchy smile.

She didn't know what to say.

 

*

 

Steve hesitated, but in the end couldn't stand it. He left Bucky warily looking at the man in the black suit—neither of them knew who he was—and went to join Sam, who'd retreated to the cockpit the second Natasha had left the jet.

"Here to say you're sorry again?" Sam muttered when he saw him.

"Sam—"

"Two years, Steve," Sam burst out. "Almost _two years_ , and we didn't know what had happened, if you were dead, or worse. Would it have killed you to send us a text?"

"I wanted to, I was _going_ to, but Bucky—" But making Bucky responsible for this wasn't right: he would've given in if Steve had insisted; only, Steve hadn't. "I didn't want you to—" _see me like this_. "I was—" _ashamed_. He shook his head, looked down. "I didn't want you to look at me differently."

"Oh, you bet we're looking at you differently now," Sam said, merciless. "Only not for the reasons you thought."

Steve flinched. "Sam…"

Sam shook his head, turned away. "I need to be alone."

Steve wanted to protest, but given the mess he'd made of things, giving Sam some space was the least he could do.

 

*

 

He returned to the back of the Quinjet and found Bucky talking with the man in the suit.

"I'm sorry about your father," he was saying. He glanced over when Steve approached, explained: "T'Challa's father was killed in the explosion."

Steve would've expressed his regrets too, but he now realized how meaningless such words were. Instead he said: "We weren't there. I swear, it wasn't—"

Bucky's hand brushed against his side. "He knows."

T'Challa inclined his head. "What I do not know, however, is who set that bomb, and why."

Unexpectedly, Bucky said: "The UN psychiatrist." When Steve looked down at him, he met his gaze and added: "He knew the words, he had the book—Karpov's book."

_Shit_. Steve sat down and took his hand. Bucky squeezed back.

"What did he want?" Steve asked. "Do you remember?"

Bucky swallowed, perspiration dampening his forehead, his upper lip. "He wanted to know about a mission— And where I was kept, in Siberia."

Steve frowned. "That's a lot of trouble for such an information." But realization was dawning on Bucky's face, accompanied by dread, so he went on: "Unless— What else was kept there?"

Bucky looked at him and, suddenly, Steve knew.

 

*

 

"We have to tell them," Rogers was hissing when Tony agreed to follow Romanov back to the Quinjet—because she was right: Rogers' _pal_ might be a murderer, he wasn't the murderer of the day, and they still had to catch that guy.

So, compartmentalization it was.

"No, we don't," said pal growled. "We can take care of this on our own."

He was looming, almost scary despite his missing arm, yet Rogers didn't back down an inch.

"I don't know, _can_ we?" he said, glaring defiantly. And it was reassuring to see that, even shrunk, he was still the same gigantic, self-righteous prick—down to his prissy, constipated frown, which now took up his whole face, in a weirdly hilarious way.

"Have to tell us what?" Tony asked, pointedly obnoxious.

Rogers' pal snapped his head towards them, momentarily distracted, and Rogers jumped right into the opening: "The man who did this. We don't know who he is, but we know what he's after."

"Steve—" his pal said warningly, but Rogers didn't spare him a glance and went on:

"There are other soldiers—and it's likely that he's found a way to control them."

And okay: that sounded bad.

 

*

 

Afterwards, the three of them conferred outside the jet—on Tony's insistence.

"We have to move fast," Natasha said. Clearly for her there was no debate.

"So that's it?" Tony retorted. "Just like that, poof, everything's forgiven and forgotten, we trust him and do as he says?"

Sam couldn't say he disagreed.

"They aren't lying," Natasha said. And if they weren't…

She had a point.

"Still, why should we have to work with _him_? UN bombing or not, he's still a wanted assassin. I say we drop him off in Berlin, _then_ go to Siberia."

Tempting.

"That'd mean giving Ross our report—which will delay us even more, with no guarantee that he'll authorize another mission. Plus, _somehow_ the thought Thaddeus Ross knowing that there are five more Winter Soldiers he could control with the right manual isn't one I find thrilling."

True.

"What about the Accords?" Tony challenged.

"Well, they haven't been ratified yet," Natasha said, a small smirk hovering at the corner of her mouth, before giving the killing blow: "Bruce would agree."

For a second Tony looked like he might explode. Then he threw his hands up. "Fine. _Fine_. But if things go awry? That's on _you_."

 

*

 

"Fine. _Fine_ ," Rogers' pal had said, _finally_ accepting their help—but then he'd added, "On two conditions," like he could afford to make _demands_.

They weren't unreasonable, though: that they wouldn't activate the soldiers, or let them be activated; and that they wouldn't look for, or reuse, the formula that had created them.

Tony had snorted. "So Hydra keeps it just lying around?"

"Hydra, no," the Soldier had said. "Your father? Maybe."

Because _Hydra_ hadn't reproduced the serum, Howard had.

And so that was the answer, after all these years: the crash hadn't been an accident, but rather the consequence of Dad being Dad, the man who'd made his fortune building weapons—and had been unable to let go of the best one he'd created.

He'd spent years looking for it, for Captain America—and oh, how Tony had hated the man. Only it hadn't been Steve Rogers Howard had wanted to recover; it had been his greatest achievement. And, failing to find it, he'd settled for _reproducing_ it.

Some would say that it was ironic, almost poetic, that _that_ was what had gotten him killed.

But there was nothing ironic, or poetic, about Tony's mom paying that price too.

 

*

 

Quick as the Quinjet was, the journey would still last several hours. Tony chose to stay in the cockpit, while T'Challa and Sam rested. Natasha sat against the wall, checking her weapons and watching Steve and the Soldier.

The facility wasn't in SHIELD's data dump, so the two of them were working on reproducing its layout, the Soldier describing what he remembered and Steve drawing in a sketchbook he'd found in his old locker. The scene looked like some footage from the war—Captain America and his Sergeant, poring over a map—but also entirely different. It wasn't just Steve's reduced size, or the Soldier's ragged look; there was something almost intimate in the way they sat, the Soldier leaning close to murmur in Steve's ear, Steve listening, focused yet entirely at ease.

Once they were done he straightened up, and on the other side of the jet T'Challa opened his eyes. He stood up and joined them to help hash out a plan.

Natasha and Sam stayed put. No matter his size, Steve still was their chief strategist; and no matter what resentment they carried, they still trusted him, and would readily let him slip back into that role.

 

*

 

Steve didn't seem to notice it; but the Solider—Barnes?—definitely did, his mouth curling downwards as Steve gave out instructions and they all nodded, even Tony. He took Steve away afterwards, to a corner where Steve fell asleep with his head in Barnes' lap.

Natasha went and sat down next to them; Barnes scowled at her. His hand, brushing against Steve's hair, looked protective, proprietary.

Steve had explained about Barnes finding him when he'd collapsed, taking him in, caring for him—picking up the burden like always. Like he didn't see the way Barnes looked at him, reached for him, like he was struggling to stay afloat and Steve his only lifeline.

"We're glad to have him back," Natasha said, then paused. "You aren't, though."

"He's just a little guy," Barnes said.

Natasha gave him a cold smile. "He's not yours. You're aware of that, right?"

"He's not yours either," Barnes hissed back.

This wasn't anything new, she realized. She could almost picture it: Steve Rogers circa 1935, so often overlooked, and Bucky Barnes, glaring at the world for not seeing Steve's worth—while coincidentally, conveniently, standing close enough to make sure no one ever got a proper look.

 

*

 

They were nearing their destination, but T'Challa didn't need to prepare: he'd given all the necessary instructions when he'd sent the Dora Milaje away.

Instead he watched their unlikely guides. Rogers and Barnes shouldn't have been here—not because they couldn't fight, but because they already had: they'd long earned their rest. Yet they'd been called back to the fore, and come, because they didn't have a choice, because there was no one else.

T'Challa didn't know much about them. Rogers he'd heard of, his actions in the fight against the Chitauri echoing all the way to Birnin Zada. He was less sure about his companion—but he could recognize a man who'd been stripped of everything, even himself, and been made to do terrible things: a victim, more than anything.

Yet T'Challa had been ready to blame him for his father's death, to kill him, without even wondering why a man who'd done his best to disappear would suddenly stage such a public attack.

_Know thy enemy_ , Westerners said; T'Challa's father always added: "If only to make sure that's indeed what he is."

Remembering, T'Challa was overcome by grief, visceral, all-encompassing: he'd never see that shrewd smile again.

 

*

 

When Sam looked up, Natasha was here, holding out an energy bar. He took it and she asked: "You okay?"

He nodded, went back to checking the straps of his jet-pack. She didn't take the hint, though, didn't leave. He gave in: "You're not angry."

"I'm not," she admitted. "I know too well what it's like—losing everything that defines you and your world, having to build everything back up."

Sam paused; it did sound familiar.

He'd suggested it to Steve, once: getting out. It had been at the beginning of their acquaintance, before he'd realized that, for Captain America, things would never be that simple. Steve had known better. And in the end, he hadn't been given a choice, neither in staying, nor in leaving.

"And my body didn't go through the changes his did," Natasha went on. "So I get that he needed to stay away—even from us."

"Still, standard procedure is to let people know before you bail."

"If you _choose_ to bail. No one foresaw that the serum would fail. And then there's Barnes."

Sam glanced at her. "You think that's really him? Back to himself?"

Natasha nodded. "As much as he can be."

 

*

 

As the Quinjet landed, Steve went over the plan. The team wasn't happy with it—or rather, with his part in it. But Bucky was going in, and where he went, Steve had to follow.

He'd compromised by borrowing Natasha's bulletproof vest. It didn't fit quite right, too narrow at the shoulders, and the discomfort only underlined the tension that had been gathering along his spine. Bucky had noticed it, too, lips tightening: he knew what it could mean.

It wouldn't be surprising. With everything that had happened—with the lack of sleep and proper meals, the exertion, the spikes of adrenaline… Steve was going to pay for it, he knew.

Hopefully not too soon.

Heavy footsteps clunked closer: Tony, already in his Iron Man suit, faceplate down. Steve would've liked to check his face, make sure that he was okay with this—working with Bucky.

Then Tony said: "Ready when you are, Cap." And Steve—

He'd hated that nickname, after the ice. It had always felt like that was all he was, all he could be, to them: the dancing monkey or the soldier. But absurdly, he'd missed it.

He'd thought no one would ever call him that again.

 


	6. New York

Romanov was waiting for him when he stepped out of his car. He'd just returned from reporting to Ross, something she'd already done several days earlier, having accompanied T'Challa to bring in the culprit of the bombing, Helmut Zemo.

The story they'd agreed on was that, having realized that Zemo was the man responsible for the attack, they'd prioritized catching him over the Winter Soldier—a decision that had 'unfortunately' given the latter the leeway he'd needed to vanish without a trace.

Romanov wasn't here to make sure Tony had successfully delivered that skewed version of the truth, though. "Everything okay?" she asked.

Her newfound solicitude would never stop feeling weird.

"Well, he still isn't happy that he has to make do with some hick from Sokovia in place of the Winter Soldier," Tony replied, purposefully obtuse, "but yes. He has no idea that Wilson wasn't the only one stowed in that Quinjet I flew back to New York—which gives us plenty of time to prepare for whatever might come next."

She smiled that knowing, frosty smile he hated. "That's not what I meant."

"I know," Tony replied. He unfolded his sunglasses, put them on. "But I'm fine, really."

 

*

 

He _was_ fine—even though images of his mother being strangled kept flitting in front of his eyes.

There had been footage—and it had been a good thing Tony had already known about Rogers' pal, because if not, he didn't know what he might've done.

There had been footage, and Tony wanted to know _why_. Hydra had to have given the Soldier very specific instructions to get it—but who was he kidding: he knew why.

Zemo had, too.

"I want you to know what it _feels_ like," he'd said, a man turned mad with grief, "to lose your whole family, to know the face, the name of their killer—and to be able to do _nothing_."

"Barnes will be brought to justice," Tony had said.

Zemo had only laughed. "They'll never convict him. He's much too precious to them. The things he knows. The things they can make him do."

And it would've been the perfect revenge indeed—if not for the look on Barnes' face then, sick, terrified, defeated: he knew all too well what they could make him do. And Tony had realized: this man wasn't his parents' killer.

And there was _something_ he could do.

 

*

 

Three days after their return, Sam had enough.

"We should kick the door in," he told Natasha.

"No," she said. "Barnes is already this close to taking Steve and running. He'll never trust us if we don't give them space."

"Space for _what_?"

Since Steve had retreated to his room that first evening, pleading exhaustion after picking at his food, no one had seen him, or Barnes. His door remained shut; all knocking went unanswered.

"Steve said the serum failing wasn't pretty," Natasha said slowly.

Sam paused. That'd explain this morning: he'd been determined to ram his fist against Steve's door until it opened—and it had, revealing the Winter Soldier, who'd slammed Sam against the wall, forearm crushing Sam's windpipe, and hissed at him to _be silent_ and _leave them alone_ because _Steve was resting_.

Then he'd disappearing back inside, locking the door behind himself.

"If he's suffering from aftereffects, he should see a doctor," Sam protested.

"I know," Natasha said. "I'll talk to Barnes."

"How do you plan to do that?" Sam asked, eyebrow quirked.

Natasha smirked. "He sneaks into the kitchen at night, to get supplies."

And really, Sam should've known she'd have everything figured out already.

 

*

 

Steve woke up to Sam sitting at his bedside, frowning down at his crossed arms.

"On your left," he said, and Sam glanced up. His mouth twitched, but he didn't smile.

"Hey," he said. "You gave us quite a scare."

Steve refrained from snorting. "I bet."

"Was it like that all along? The serum failing?"

"Depends," Steve said. He winced: his whole body was aching. "How long was I out?"

"Eight days."

"I've had worse."

"Might've gone better if your pal had let us help from the start," Sam said, tilting his head towards the other side of the room, where Bucky was lying on a cot, asleep—out of exhaustion more than trust, Steve suspected.

"We couldn't afford doctors," he said. "He got used to dealing with my crap on his own."

"You can afford them _now_ ," Sam retorted. He hesitated. "Dr. Cho's been running some tests—trying to figure out if your seizures are due to the serum still leaving your body, or if they're… a more permanent fixture."

Steve would bet on the latter. Paying for the few years of strength and health the serum had granted him with lifelong aftereffects: that sounded just like his luck.

 

*

 

Steve groaned as he hoisted himself onto a stool, then paused when he noticed that Bucky had stopped rummaging through the fridge to stare at the empty doorway.

"Hello?" Steve called.

A pair of eyes peered into the room, framed by long brown hair.

Steve smiled. "You must be Wanda," he said, remembering what Natasha and Sam had told him. "Did you need something?"

"I just wanted to make sandwiches," she said. "I didn't mean to bother you."

"You're not," Steve assured. He shared a glance with Bucky.

"Tell you what," Bucky said. "You help us with the cooking, and you can have some of our meal."

Eventually, Wanda nodded.

She and Steve were setting the table when a lanky, white-haired young man suddenly appeared in the room.

"What's cooking, sis?" he asked. "Smells delicious."

He'd already drawn a chair when Bucky growled: "So that's it? She does all the work, and you just show up to put your feet under the table?"

The boy froze. "I… brought bagels?"

A brow bag had indeed appeared on the counter.

Bucky narrowed his eyes. The boy swallowed.

"You're doing the dishes," Bucky declared, and took another plate out of the cupboard.

 

*

 

Wherever he looked, Steve saw traces of Sokovia—not just in Wanda and Pietro's presence: it was in Tony and Natasha's tireless work on the Accords, in Sam's constant training, in Clint's decision to retire. Steve saw it all, and felt awful for not having _been_ there, for not sharing that burden.

"So you would've stood with us?" Tony asked.

Steve felt insulted. "Of course."

"Because—" Tony glanced at Sam and Natasha. "The mission in Siberia. Your plan was good. We could use that sort of… help."

Steve stared.

"No," Bucky said.

Tony, who'd perfected the art of pretending Bucky wasn't there, went on: "You wouldn't be on the ground. No need to sign the Accords either—officially, you wouldn't be an Avenger. Just a… consulting strategist, or something."

" _Steve_ ," Bucky said, tense. "No."

Steve looked at him. "But—"

"I know you still want to fight," Bucky said, "make things better. But not this way."

" _What_ way, then?" Steve asked, provocative.

Bucky threw up his hand. "I don't know! Go to protests, write a _blog_ —"

Steve snorted. "Like anyone'd care about what some nobody has to say."

Bucky looked incensed. "You're _not_ just some—"

"Yeah," Tony cut in. "About that."

 

*

 

Steve remembered—once he'd recovered enough lucidity to wonder and, later, to get around the news blackout Bucky was keeping him in. It had been discreet at first: a confused mutter, rumors reluctantly starting; and then, after Sokovia, a distressed cry.

_Where is Captain America?_

No answer had come from the Avengers, leaving the door wide open to speculation. Captain America was severely injured, articles had claimed, crippled, dead. He'd retired—because of course he had: look at the state of the world, of our country, we don't deserve his protection, we don't deserve to be saved. There had been a disagreement between him and the other Avengers, so he'd left.

After Sokovia, that last theory had spread like wildfire: Captain America had been against the Sentinel Program from the start, they'd said. If the Avengers had listened to him, none of this would've happened. If he'd been there, there wouldn't have been that many victims—like they hadn't nearly died trying to save as many as they could; like they hadn't been giving their all since, to repair, to rebuild.

And Bucky didn't want him to, but Steve _had_ to.

It was high time to set the record straight.

 

*

 

When he returned from the press conference, Steve found his room empty. Bucky was nowhere to be seen, still furious at him for his choice, for throwing away his one chance to escape.

The room was as Steve had left it two years ago, as if none of the Avengers had yet accepted that he might never come back. His shield was there too, propped against the wall beside the dresser. Steve stared at it, then picked it up.

"Heavier than you thought?"

He glanced at Sam, standing in the doorway. "Lighter, actually." He turned it over, slid his arm into the straps. The shield sagged: they were far too wide. Steve remembered them being just the right size, the faint, reassuring pressure of them encircling his limb. Heavy as it had been, carrying the shield had also made him feel safe—and he'd thrived on being able to extend that safety to others.

Such an object, such a symbol, should not be left in a corner, gathering dust.

"You should carry it," he said.

Sam laughed—then stopped, when he realized Steve was serious.

"You don't have to," Steve said. "But I can't think of anyone better than you."

 

*

 

"You sure made it look a lot easier than it is," Sam complained over the comm after almost braining himself with the shield for the third time.

Up in the control room, Steve smirked. "I did."

The door whooshed open behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he was surprised to see Bucky, who sat down in the chair beside his.

He didn't say anything, simply watched Sam train. Then he commented: "Not bad."

"Don't let him hear you," Steve whispered.

"I thought _I_ was the drill sergeant."

Steve bit his lips around a grin. He was so glad that Bucky was talking to him again, he didn't dare question it. Still, he wondered…

"Wanda and Dr. Cho say they might have figured out a way to… you know," Bucky said, gesturing at his head.

Steve straightened. "That's great, Buck."

Bucky looked more apprehensive than happy, though. "And Romanov wants me to hire a lawyer," he went on. "So that whenever people realize I'm here…"

He trailed off. Steve took his hand; Bucky squeezed back.

"Dunno where she got the idea that my case if defensible," he mumbled.

Steve, who knew exactly where she had, said: "It is, Buck. It is."

 

*

 

"Of course your case is defensible," the lawyer, Bernie Rosenthal, said after a lengthy private interview with Bucky. They'd just returned to the room where Steve, Natasha and, curiously, Tony had been waiting.

Bucky nodded, swallowed. His thigh pressed against Steve's on the couch; Steve pressed back.

"I don't have any money to pay you," Bucky said haltingly. "Not clean money, anyway."

The funds he'd stolen from Hydra, which had done well enough as a generous anonymous donation to the association Dr. Mutiso worked with, wouldn't work here.

Steve opened his mouth to offer his own money, to which he'd soon have access again, but—

"I'll cover it," Tony said.

Everyone except Natasha stared at him. The silence stretched.

"Look," Tony said, shifting, "I've read the files. I've seen that chair, in Siberia." He took out his sunglasses, checked the lenses for smudges. "The way I see it, you're as responsible for your victims' death as the bombs I manufactured—and no one ever short-circuited _my_ brain into submission. So."

He fiddled with the temples and studiously avoided Bucky's stare.

Bucky said: "I'm sorry about your parents."

"Yeah, well," Tony replied, aiming for flippant and missing. "I am, too."

 

*

 

"It's too early to tell for sure," Wanda said, "but I think it's working."

A thrill ran through Steve, but he simply said, "That's good," and drew a curve on the large sheet of paper taped to the wall in front of him. After a second Wanda did the same on hers—without touching her pen.

They were training her powers' accuracy: balancing a small object for an extended period of time, directing it to apply moderate pressure, to follow a pattern. One pen had ended up crushed and the wall was now adorned with several wild blue streaks, but she was improving.

He added a loop, followed by random squiggles; she sent him a baleful glance, then admitted: "It _feels_ good, too."

Steve smiled. Like Bucky, he couldn't help but feel kinship towards Wanda and Pietro: two young kids dragged into war, experimented on and now stranded away from home, with no way of ever going back. That they could find a way to turn that into something positive, use their powers for something unquestionably good…

"That's great," he said, and painted a flower like a child would: a crown of petals surrounding a round center, and a smile.

 

*

 

The sessions with Wanda left Bucky exhausted, plagued with headaches, but he rarely lay down to rest. Instead he'd find Steve, and read through the team's training logs to help him plan future exercises.

"You don't have to do this," Steve said.

Bucky looked up from his tablet, eyebrows raised.

"You don't even have to stay. Once you're healed, and cleared—and you will be—you can do whatever you want. I know this isn't it."

"The fuck you on about?" Bucky asked, frowning.

Steve looked down. "I've never been able to let things go, I know; I'm sorry for that. But me going back in shouldn't mean that _you_ have to. So if you—"

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Bucky dumped his tablet on the table. "I mean, sure, I'd love for you to stop throwing yourself into fights you can't win. But if you were the type to _let shit go_ , you wouldn't be Steve fucking Rogers, and I happen to love that asshole." He clasped Steve's nape in his hand, eyes boring into his. "I want him. More than anything, I want _him_. To the end of the line, punk, remember?"

Steve swallowed, and said: "I do."

 


	7. Home

He woke up utterly drained, his whole body hurting, down to the marrow of his bones—and he was no stranger to pain, but he had never felt anything like this.

He was lying in a bed, surrounded by medical equipment. His heart picked up, his breath rushed in, and panic would've followed, hadn't he caught movement out of the corner of his eye: someone, sitting at his bedside, leaning closer, calling his name; someone he knew.

"Steve," he said, and relaxed.

"Hey," Steve said, voice wobbly. "How do you feel?"

"Rotten. What happened?"

The last thing he remembered… They'd been in the control room, there had been an attack, he'd been helping, doing _good_ , directing Wilson towards Natasha, who'd been pinned down and needed air support—but everything had felt wrong, for days _he_ 'd been feeling wrong, and that day had been even worse, with a headache that wouldn't fade and—

Oh.

He looked at Steve, noticed for the first time the tears in his eyes, at odds with the smile on his face, full of relief and something like joy.

"Yeah," he said. "Welcome back among us mortal men."

But he really meant: _Welcome home_.

And Bucky was.

 

*

 

END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't hesitate to leave feedback :) And please, do consider [reblogging the masterpost on tumblr](http://princessniitza.tumblr.com/post/164068335926/fic-whats-left-behind-77-complete).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] What's left behind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15026777) by [quietnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietnight/pseuds/quietnight)




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